02 October 2015

Mavis Gallant Memorial Plaque

Cast earlier today at Alloy Foundry in Merrickville, Ontario, a plaque honouring the great short story writer Mavis Gallant. Next Friday,  October 9th, will see its installation at Montreal's Writers' ChapelSt James the Apostle Anglican Church.

John Metcalf and Claudine Gélinas-Faucher will be speaking.

The Venerable Linda Borden Taylor will officiate.

All are welcome.

Friday, 9 October 2015, 6 p.m.

Church of St James the Apostle
1439 St Catherine Street West (Bishop Street entrance)

A wine and cheese reception will follow.

 Join us in celebrating the life and work of this great writer!

Related posts:

28 September 2015

Ricochet! Ricochet!

Arriving in bookstores as I write, books seven and eight in Véhicule's Ricochet Books series. Following visits to Niagara Falls (James Benson Nablo's The Long November) and Toronto (Hugh Garner's Waste No Tears), we're returning to Montreal with:

The Mayor of Côte St. Paul by Ronald J. Cooke, the strange story of Dave Manley, a struggling writer drawn into the world of slot-machines and rum-running by a good looking gal who wants nothing so much as to open a lingerie store in Lunenburg, Nova Scotia. Both work for the Mayor, a sadistic crime boss who takes pleasure in murdering people with darts.

Printed once by pre-romance Harlequin in June 1950, the Ricochet edition is the first in more than sixty-five years.

Hot Freeze by Douglas Sanderson, post-war Canada’s greatest noir novel, introduces "inquiry agent" Mike Garfin, ex-RCMP (he made the mistake of bedding a suspect's wife). In this first of three or four adventures, he's hired to figure out what exactly is going on with one of Westmount's spoiled bisexual teenaged sons.

Published in 1954, by Dodd, Mead (New York) and Reinhardt (London), then in 1955 by Popular Library (New York), this edition is the first in sixty years.

Both The Mayor of Côte St. Paul and Hot Freeze feature Introductions by yours truly – my first since David Montrose's The Crime on Cote des Neiges (or, if you prefer, Meurtre à Westmount).

Long-time readers will recognize both titles. I first wrote here about Hot Freeze in the earliest days of 2011. The Mayor of Côte St. Paul consumed not one, not two, but three posts later that same year.

The Mayor of Côte St. Paul and Hot Freeze are available from the usual online sources, better bookstores and, of course, Véhicule itself.
I would be remiss in not recognizing the role played by Greg Shepard of Stark House Press in the Hot Freeze reissue. In recent years, Stark House has reissued six Douglas Sanderson novels, including A Dum-Dum for the President, the third – or is it fourth?  Mike Garfin thriller. 
Related posts:

26 September 2015

Not Any Old Author, a Canadian Author

Night Without Darkness
Kenneth Orvis [pseud Kenneth Lemieux]
New York: Pan, 1968

Related post:

21 September 2015

'A Relentless Story of the Hell of Drug Addiction'

The Damned and the Destroyed
Kenneth Orvis [pseud. Kenneth Lemieux]
London: Dobson, 1962

How many novels begin with the protagonist being summoned to a mansion on Mount Royal? This very thing happens in Murder without Regret, the last book I read. Off the top of my head, I can think of a couple of others: David Montrose's The Crime on Cote des Neiges and Hot Freeze by Douglas Sanderson. Not so The Damned and the Destroyed – here the reader has to wait for the third page. The first two set the stage: The year (unstated) is 1954. Thirty-eight-year-old Jean Drapeau (unnamed) has just been elected mayor of Montreal. His party, the Civic Action League (named), looks to close down the open city of Al Palmer's Montreal Confidential.

Private investigator Maxwell Dent is more than familiar with the city's unseemly underside, which is not to say he's of it. Straight-laced and upstanding, Dent studied law at McGill, then served in the Korean War where he took down "an enemy ring supplying narcotics to U.N. forces for the purpose of troop demoralization."

Huntley Ashton, the man whose mansion the PI visits, knows all this stuff: "I've had you checked, Dent. Screened thoroughly. I respect what I found." Ashton's due diligence is understandable. As one of the city's most respected businessmen, he has to make certain that Dent can be trusted. The case is a sensitive one. Ashton's daughter Helen has turned heroin addict, and he wants Dent to smash the drug ring:
"I know that is a big order. A huge undertaking. Nevertheless, I want the people that are selling blackmarket drugs to my daughter run out of business and jailed. I want them punished to the full."
Good Canadian that he is, Dent gives thought, then responds:
"I must ask you to bear in mind that in Canada offences against the Narcotic Act fall under the jurisdiction of the R.C.M.P. The R.C.M.P. wouldn't like your present attitude."
Despite his reservations, Dent takes the case. I'm not sure why exactly, but I think it has something to do with Ashton's love for his daughter.

"She was beautiful, young, blonde and a junkie…" reads the pitch on the Belmont paperback.  The key word is "was". Helen was beautiful, or so Dent assumes, but those looks are gone by the time he sets eyes on her. Heroin has taken its toll, as it always does, and there's more: scars and weals crisscross her sunken belly, the work of a drunken abortionist.

Orvis – Lemieux, if you prefer – spent five years researching this novel. He hung with addicts and pushers, interviewed counsellors and read a mess of reports and case studies. There's a real feel of authenticity in the descriptions of his damned and destroyed: Frankie Seven, Dream Street Fay and wasted talent Phil Chasen. A classically trained concert pianist, Phil coulda been somebody, instead of a junkie, which is what he is.

Orvis handles these characters well – they appear real, and probably were – but falls flat with others. Drug kingpin Jack Moss, the "Back Man", comes off like a Bond villain. Shadow, his errand boy, is a young rapscallion who is equal parts Dondi and Oliver Twist. Inspector Welch of the RCMP is an inspector with the RCMP, and the only memorable thing about Helen's sister Thorn is her name.

Things fall apart in the second act with the shift from the first group to the second. By this point, I'd long grown tired of Dent, his outrage, his moralizing and his unwavering faith in himself. The PI is never more annoying than when he gets it in his head that he can cure Helen through tough love. He has her witness a police line-up, takes her to the trial of someone charged with possession, and forces her to visit Fay in the Fullum Street Prison:
My fingers tightened determinedly over Helen's shoulder. "Take a good look at her," I said with every ounce of firmness I could command… "Look at her face, her body. Listen to her screams, her agony. Listen and look well, because what you're seeing and hearing now is the end of the road for every addict. For everyone that thinks there's a thrill or an escape in heroin. For you – Helen Ashton!" 

Lee Child is a great admirer of The Damned and the Destroyed. Should I be surprised? I don't know, I've never read Child. But a thriller should thrill, right? At the very least, it should move forward at a good pace. This one stalls. Repeatedly. When it picks up, the reader is treated to lengthy descriptions of hours spent trailing Moss and stakeouts that go on for days and days. The climax, which comes as a relief, involves a risky plan of Maxwell Dent's own design. He gets RCMP support, but keeps the details to himself. "Just issue those orders," he tells Welch. "Issue them and wait."

Three people die as a result.

I'm sure our hero would tell you that it was the best of all possible outcomes.

Pierre Desmarais, Jean Drapeau and Pacifique Plante
25 October 1954


Coincidence: Amongst those thanked in the Acknowledgements is "Gordon W. Phillips S. Th., Consultant at the Allan Division, Royal Victoria hospital, and Chaplain Montreal prisons." A friend of the my parents, glimpses of Rev Phillips' good work is found in Adopted Derelicts, a pre-romance Harlequin written by his wife Bluebell. My father is named in the Acknowledgements of Mrs Phillips' book.

Object and Access: An unexciting 223-page hardcover in black boards with silver type. The 1962 Dobson is most likely the first, but those who follow the flag will want the McClelland & Stewart edition published that same year. An old Gazette column (29 June 1962) has McGraw-Hill publishing the novel in the States, but I've yet to see a copy. There have been two paperback editions: Digit (1964) and Belmont (1966).

Copies of The Damned and the Destroyed aren't plentiful, but they're not expensive. Those listed for sale online range in price from between £5 and US$30. I purchased mine this past June for £3.50 from a UK bookseller.

The Damned and the Destroyed was reissued three years ago – as an ebook only – by Prologue Books. Lee Child provides the Foreword.

A handful of our academic libraries have copies, as do Bibliothèque et Archives nationals du Québec and Library and Archives Canada.

Related posts:

14 September 2015

Margaret Laurence's Cauliflower Soup

"I'm going out for more milk."

"You're kidding."

"It takes an awful lot."

"We have cream. Why don't you use that?"

"But then it wouldn't be the way Margaret Laurence made it."

Domestic dialogue between me and my wife from this weekend past. The subject is soup. I'd decided to tackle one of Margaret Laurence's favourite recipes. It was her very own creation. You can understand the attraction, I'm sure.

Now, I'm a really crummy cook, so it really says something that I had a hard time sticking to the recipe. The temptation to tweak was great. Water? Why not broth? A red pepper might add colour and taste. Those two quarts of milk seem like a lot, don't they? Of course, Laurence suggests that I might use less, but how am I to interpret "or however much you need for right amount for your soup pot"?

The result was a bland, watery mixture. I raised spoon to mouth reminding myself that this was what might have been served had I ever been invited to the writer's Lakefield home. It would've been impolite not to finish. Having never read Laurence, the rest of the family pushed their bowls away.

When came time to clear the table I turned to my wife. "Margaret Laurence was a much better novelist than cook," I said.

"So are you."

"But I'm not a novelist."


As far as I know, the recipe for Margaret Laurence's cauliflower soup was first published in Those Marvelous Church Suppers (Kelowna, BC: Wood Lake, 1985). I took it from The CanLit Foodbook, (Toronto: Totem, 1987), which was compiled and illustrated by Margaret Atwood. Husband Graeme's recipes dominate.

The CanLit Foodbook was meant as a fundraiser in aid of PEN International and the Writer's Trust. Donations may be made by clicking on the links provided.

Related posts:

08 September 2015

Bewitched, Bothered, but Not Bewildered

Murder without Regret
E. Louise Cushing
[New York]: Arcadia House, 1954

There are two ways to approach this novel: the first is as a murder mystery, the second is as an account of four pivotal days in the life of a repressed, frustrated and somewhat unpleasant lesbian. Both lead to intertwining paths, but the latter is the more interesting.

Murder without Regret was Enid Louise Cushing's second novel, and is one of several to feature Inspector MacKay of the Montreal Police Service. He'll be the one who solves the crimes, but the roles of protagonist and narrator fall to twenty-something Barbara Hiller. Babs opens the novel by driving through the gates of the Randall mansion on Peel Street. It's been some time since her last visit. She'd once been close to Julie Randall, heiress presumptive of the Randall fortune. The two had "gone around together" for years, but then Julie met Joyce Prescott and Babs was replaced. What Babs refers to as a "bewitchment" came to an abrupt end: "It hurt at first, but I got over it."

So, here we have Babs in her car, steeling herself in anticipation of Julie, whom she hasn't seen in years. Babs is at Randall House because Julie asked her – now, that phone call was unexpected – saying something about the reading of her grandfather's will. It seems that tonight's the night the fortune becomes hers. Just a formality, really, but Julie wants Babs present.

After all that build-up, the meeting between the two comes as an anticlimax. Julie sends Babs upstairs to her bedroom, but it's just to freshen up. Once there, Babs notices a girl slumped over the vanity, places her hand on a cooling left breast, and determines that she's dead.

Who's the dead girl? Why, Joyce Prescott, of course.

Enter Lieutenant Brandy Fernley, Royal Canadian Navy. He'd met Babs once during those years she and Julie had been close. She's forgotten all about him, but not he her: "Funny, I remember you so well… Your red hair, and the way your eyes always followed Julie." Brandy has returned for a reason, though Joyce's dead body serves as a spanner in the works:
"I was going to announce my engagement to Brandy," Julie sniffed.
     "Your engagement?" I said somewhat flatly. For some unaccountable reason, I had a funny letdown feeling. 
Who killed Joyce? Who cares. By this point I wasn't so much interested in the solution to the crime as I was in getting a read on Babs. News of a second murder victim, former acquaintance Paul Hadrill, doesn't distract much, though his name brings further insight. Babs is quick to make clear that they'd "never gone around": "It was true that we'd driven a lot together – he and Julie in the back seat and me alone in front." Babs later reveals that she'd taken in the action through the rearview mirror.

Who killed Paul? As with Joyce, MacKay is on the case. Babs is somewhat helpful – much less than she likes to think – but everyone else moves on. Joyce hasn't been dead twenty-four hours before Julie invites Babs to Malcolm's, an upscale downtown restaurant. Babs, who had anticipated an intimate luncheon, is irritated to discover her old friend surrounded by women she doesn't know: "Even before I'd a chance to declare my neutrality, I was ignored with the successful rudeness cultivated by and perfected by female cats who have decided after one glance that the latest arrival is not One of Them." Babs' own feline glances linger:
Kitty Buckley was a languid, black-haired would-be beauty, with mascara that thick. I gulped when I saw her dress. It was black and very smart, but it dropped down to here in the front. I was fascinated, and practically had to tear my eyes away to take in Kathleen Haines, beside her.
Cushing's Montrealers are either catty, cold or insensitive. Even "nice Inspector MacKay" (see review below) can't help but joke with Babs at the inquest into Joyce's death. Still, the detective is dedicated, solving her murder within a matter of days. Nothing is spoiled in revealing that the killer turns out to be Julie; she's the lone character the reader might have cause to suspect.

You'd be wrong to suppose that her arrest would upset Brandy Fernley. Julie's fiancé reveals that their engagement was meant as a joke played on assembled friends. It doesn't speak well for the mystery writer that what follows comes as the novel's greatest surprise:
"So you see, even last Tuesday night I had no idea of marrying Julie.
     "Oh," I said flatly. He had seemed to expect some noise from me.
     "Yes, I decided then and there I'd like to marry you. The party Thursday night rather clinched it. How does that appeal to you?
     "Quite a lot," I admitted honestly.
There's no talk of love, no embrace, no kiss; the two don't so much as touch. And so, navy man Brandy trades an engagement of convenience for a marriage of convenience, and Babs prepares union to a man who likes nothing more than being at sea in the company of other men.

That's it, really, though an awkward page is tacked to the end in which Babs learns that she, not Julie, will be inheriting the vast Randall estate.

All in all, a strange book… and I do like strange books. I'll be reading more E. Louise Cushing. One of her mysteries is about a Montreal bookseller who finds a body in her shop.

The title is Blood on My Rug.

Favourite passage:
"You always have been longer in stores than you intended to be," she said calmly. "I think you like to talk to the salesgirls. Anyway, I didn't mind at all; it seems perfectly natural for me to wait for you."
     I grinned. She'd hit the nail on the head; it seemed perfectly natural for me. I did like chatting to salesgirls, as she well knew…

Trivia I: Montrealers, particularly residents of NDG, will enjoy the local flavour. Paul's murder takes place at 4312 Melrose Avenue, which is currently the site of a Jean Coutu parking lot. His killer walks over from Wilson using the alleyway that runs just north of Sherbrooke. One minor character works in Simpson's – disguised as "Mason's" – and is shot just up the street on Mansfield.

Yes, shot. See, I haven't given everything away.

Trivia II: The only Montreal novel I've encountered to feature not a single French-speaking character. "Madame Cecile of the French Salon in one of the large stores" receives fleeting mention.

The critics rave: "Montreal gal's poisoning sets off chain reaction; nice Inspector MacKay takes over. Badly organized, plus other structural faults but holds interest. Fifty-fifty." – Saturday Review, 1 January 1955.

Object: A compact, cheaply produced hardcover in maroon cloth with black type. Depicting the scene of the crime, the uncredited dust jacket illustration is best viewed from afar; up close it looks nothing if not bizarre. That piece of furniture is awfully high for a vanity, is it not? The keys are the size of children's teethers and those coins look like pieces of eight. I'm not bothering with the levitating purse.

The rear cover and flap features ads for other obscure Arcadia mysteries by Fred Orpet (Murder's No Accident), R.A. Braun (Murder Four Miles High), Maude M. Thomas (Wait Long, Wait Still) and Harry Walker (né Hillary Waugh; The Case of the Missing Gardener).

Access: An uncommon title, Murder without Regret appears to have enjoyed one lone printing. Just three copies are currently listed for sale online. The cheapest, Very Good in Very Good dust jacket, is going for US$25. The one you'll want, sold by a Dartmouth bookseller, is inscribed by the author. Price: C$95.

Not a single Canadian library has a copy.

31 August 2015

Langevin's Masterpiece; McClelland's Disappointment

Orphan Street [Une Chaîne dans le parc]
André Langevin [trans., Alan Brown]
Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1976

Jack McClelland thought Orphan Street was the most important novel to have come out of French Canada since The Tin Flute. I can't agree, but I will say that it's just about the greatest thing I've read this year. And it's been a very good year.

Orphan Street didn't exactly set McClelland's house on fire; not only was it a commercial failure, the critics couldn't get it up. The publisher himself kept pushing it in the press long after sales had proven limp. Ever the optimist, five months after publication he wrote Langevin:
There are a lot of people around the country now who have read it, are talking about it and who are recommending it, and it would not entirely surprise me if it turned out to be a slow starter that will eventually gain momentum and do extremely well.
     Unquestionably one of the difficulties with the book in English is that it starts more slowly than the English-reading public have come to expect. They found the opening chapter slow, somewhat baffling….
Orphan Street isn't such a difficult a novel, but the first chapter is a real challenge, immersing the reader in the elaborate phantasies of young protagonist Pierrot. A nine-year-old veteran of a Catholic orphanage, Pierrot has been removed – with sudden jerk – from his uncomfortable confines by the bachelor brother and three spinster sisters of his deceased mother. Their motivation, such as it is, probably has something to do with familial duty. The thinking is that maybe, just maybe, the boy doesn't take after his cheating drunk of a father. In truth, they passed judgement before he arrived.

It sounds awful, I know, but you can't feel too bad about Pierrot. With their disinterest comes freedom.

Pierrot's new home with Uncle Nap and aunts lies in the shadow of the Jacques Cartier Bridge; the Molson brewery squats at one end like a big brown brick. Consumptive Gaston, known to all as "the Rat", rummages through the refuse and deals in black-market goods. I spoil nothing in writing that he'll be dead before the novel's end. Before he goes, the Rat serves as a guide to the boy's little corner of Second World War Montreal. Pierrot quickly makes friends with Jane, the very pretty red-haired anglaise in the adjacent apartment, with whom he spends a summer roaming city streets, parks and wharves, sharing adventures the likes of which I daren't have dreamt at his age.

There is joy in life lived outside walls. Where the past was one of routine populated by abusive older boys and the same grey nuns, each new day brings new experiences and people he had no idea existed.   Pierrot's exuberance, his passion for the new and his interest in other people are all that his aunts cannot abide.

No, Orphan Street is not so difficult a novel, though later scenes will disturb. It's not so difficult until one remembers that the author spent much of his own childhood in a Quebec orphanage. Langevin's experience may not have resembled precisely that of Pierrot – the author would've been ten or so years older – but there is discomfort in the recognition. The best one can say is that Lemelin was spared the unique horrors suffered by the Duplessis Orphans.


Orphan Street came and went in less than a season; there was no second printing and no paperback edition. The novel was considered for New Canadian Library – McClelland's recommendation, I expect – but this went nowhere.

The time is overdue for Orphan Street to be properly recognized. It's too much to expect the translation to do as Jack McClelland hoped – "extremely well" – but it does deserve a return to print.

Sheila Fischman considers it a masterpiece.

Trivia: In the same letter to Langevin, McClelland writes that a translation of L'Élan d'Amérique is "being considered by our editors at the present time." Thirty-eight years later, Orphan Street remains the second and last of the author's titles to have appeared in English.

Object: Two hundred and eighty-seven pages in rose-coloured cloth with silver stamping. Where it not for the brilliant cover painting by Jean Paul Lemieux, I'd have considered it a prime example of McClelland & Stewart's bland 'seventies designs. The image fits the novel so perfectly – Pierrot is blonde, this is his neighbourhood, the Jacques Cartier Bridge is in the background – that I can't help but wonder whether it was commissioned for the book. But how can that be? Lemieux's work hangs in the National Gallery and fetches millions. And where is the painting today? I can't find a trace.

I bought my copy of Orphan Street thirty years ago at the Book Market in Dollard des Ormeaux. Price: $1.95. The book has survived thirteen moves, including two to the West Coast. It was terrible shape when I bought it. Honest.

Access: Lippincott brought the novel out in the United States. Very Good copies of it and the McClelland & Stewart edition can be bought online for eight dollars.

Orphan Street is easily found in our colleges and universities, though no more than a handful of our public libraries have held on to their copies. Interestingly, Alan Brown's translation is more easily found south of the border.

Une Chaîne dans le parc has never been out of print. It's currently published by Boréal (above). Used copies of past editions are listed online for as little as three American dollars.

Related posts:

25 August 2015

Toronto, Life, the Subliminal Seduction of the Innocent and a Morley Callaghan Mystery

Toronto Life, vol. 4, no. 7 (7 June 1970)

There are jokes to be made about Toronto Life having to travel two hours outside the city for a cover story, but this Montrealer is above all that. What's more, this Montrealer deserves credit for saving this magazine from the pulper.

Just look at that cover!

It would've been displayed at United Cigar Stores four years before I made the leap from Allancroft Elementary to Beaconsfield High. A to B, it was at the latter that I encountered Wilson Bryan Key's Subliminal Seduction, the closest thing the school library had to a dirty book.

Key, who taught briefly at the University of Western Ontario, saw sex everywhere. In fact, he claimed the very word – SEX – was written in caps on images of ice cubes used in ads for hard liquor.

SEX on ice? I couldn't see it – and as a twelve year-old I was really looking. That said, my fifty-two year-old self did notice something about the cover of this old Toronto Life.

Do you?

Different times, right? This is the issue's subscription card:

Forty-five years have passed. "Stratford As You'll Like It", the promised "Fun guide to Stratford the turned-on town", is now as dated as author David Smith's wardrobe.

Smith's hook, dull and lacking a lure, is all about how much the town has changed since the Stratford Festival's 1953 beginning:
Boutiques now line Ontario Street where the dry goods shops used to be. The "hippies" on the street are probably townspeople. Stratford even has its own topless dancer, at 56" more for your money than anywhere else I know.
It doesn't say much that Smith failed to interest the local historian in me, though I did enjoy the photos, like this one of nearby St Marys, where I now live.

Like something from another century… which, of course, it is. And look, here's the author in Olin Brown's, "where confectionary is still made by hand – and tastes delicious."

Toronto Life informs that David Smith is a "Toronto couturier".

Odd how few recognizable names feature in the bylines. This Toronto Life is no Montrealer: no short stories, no poetry, no book reviews; though you will find an automotive column, a cooking column and a column concerning interior decoration.

Not to say that literary types didn't contribute. Our very own E.L. James, Marika Robert, whose lone novel A Stranger and Afraid I read last year, has a travel piece on Rome. Eric LeBourdais, nephew of Gwethalyn Graham, provides a very long article: "Why We Need the Spadina and How It Can Lead Toronto into the 21st Century", in which he draws on a study by automotive industry front General Research Corporation of Burbank, California.

Heather Cooper's illustrations did not convince, though I did marvel at those demonstrating how the proposed expressway "would skirt Casa Loma and provide a partial interchange at Davenport":

"READ ON FOR FACTS ABOUT THE SPADINA AND THE FUTURE" encourages the magazine, between ads for General Motors, Shell, Chrysler, Chevrolet, Maserati and a Lincoln Mercury dealership.

To be perfectly fair, the same  issue features a snap of novelist David Lewis Stein making the rounds in his fight against the very same project.

I'm afraid that the only other sign of Toronto's literary scene comes through a recycled press release:

Thumbs Down on Julien Jones – note correct title – "his first book in seven years", was never published; I've been keeping an eye out for decades. Callaghan began the novel in 1942 as his follow-up to More Joy in Heaven. Twenty-one years later, he told the New York Times that it was a month from completion. And here it is again in 1970, presented as something on the cusp of publication.

Callaghan read four excerpts on CBL. Some of it was adapted and published in 1973 as a short story, "The Meterman, Caliban, and Then Mr. Jones", in son Barry's Exile. The following year, the same was dramatized in an episode of the CBC's The Play's the Thing.

I keep expecting Thumbs Down on Julien Jones to be published; Library and Archives Canada holds several drafts. Of And Then It All Came Together, described in Toronto Life as a novel in progress, there is no trace; nothing with that title is found amongst his papers. Throughout the latter half of 1970, Callaghan talked about the work as something he wouldn't talk about.

Maybe not talking about it was enough.

Could be I've said too much.

I'll shut up.


I would be remiss not to recognize that Morley Callaghan died twenty-five years ago today. His was the last death of which I learned by way of a newspaper. I was walking across Square St-Henri when I read the news on the front page of the Gazette.

Different times, right?

Related posts: